Five Children and It E. Nesbit (uplifting books for women TXT) đ
- Author: E. Nesbit
Book online «Five Children and It E. Nesbit (uplifting books for women TXT) đ». Author E. Nesbit
âCome to his own Martha, thenâ âa precious poppet!â
The grown-up Lamb (whose names shall now be buried in oblivion) struggled furiously. An expression of intense horror and annoyance was seen on his face. But Martha was stronger than he. She lifted him up and carried him into the house. None of the children will ever forget that picture. The neat grey-flannel-suited grown-up young man with the green tie and the little black moustacheâ âfortunately, he was slightly built, and not tallâ âstruggling in the sturdy arms of Martha, who bore him away helpless, imploring him, as she went, to be a good boy now, and come and have his nice bremmink! Fortunately, the sun set as they reached the doorstep, the bicycle disappeared, and Martha was seen to carry into the house the real live darling sleepy two-year-old Lamb. The grown-up Lamb (nameless henceforth) was gone forever.
âForever,â said Cyril, âbecause, as soon as ever the Lambâs old enough to be bullied, we must jolly well begin to bully him, for his own sakeâ âso that he maynât grow up like that.â
âYou shanât bully him,â said Anthea stoutlyâ âânot if I can stop it.â
âWe must tame him by kindness,â said Jane.
âYou see,â said Robert, âif he grows up in the usual way, thereâll be plenty of time to correct him as he goes along. The awful thing today was his growing up so suddenly. There was no time to improve him at all.â
âHe doesnât want any improving,â said Anthea as the voice of the Lamb came cooing through the open door, just as she had heard it in her heart that afternoonâ â
âMe loves Pantyâ âwants to come to own Panty!â
X ScalpsProbably the day would have been a greater success if Cyril had not been reading The Last of the Mohicans. The story was running in his head at breakfast, and as he took his third cup of tea he said dreamily, âI wish there were Red Indians in Englandâ ânot big ones, you know, but little ones, just about the right size for us to fight.â
Everyone disagreed with him at the time, and no one attached any importance to the incident. But when they went down to the sandpit to ask for a hundred pounds in two-shilling pieces with Queen Victoriaâs head on, to prevent mistakesâ âwhich they had always felt to be a really reasonable wish that must turn out wellâ âthey found out that they had done it again! For the Psammead, which was very cross and sleepy, saidâ â
âOh, donât bother me. Youâve had your wish.â
âI didnât know it,â said Cyril.
âDonât you remember yesterday?â said the Sand-fairy, still more disagreeably. âYou asked me to let you have your wishes wherever you happened to be, and you wished this morning, and youâve got it.â
âOh, have we?â said Robert. âWhat is it?â
âSo youâve forgotten?â said the Psammead, beginning to burrow. âNever mind; youâll know soon enough. And I wish you joy of it! A nice thing youâve let yourselves in for!â
âWe always do, somehow,â said Jane sadly.
And now the odd thing was that no one could remember anyoneâs having wished for anything that morning. The wish about the Red Indians had not stuck in anyoneâs head. It was a most anxious morning. Everyone was trying to remember what had been wished for, and no one could, and everyone kept expecting something awful to happen every minute. It was most agitating; they knew, from what the Psammead had said, that they must have wished for something more than usually undesirable, and they spent several hours in most agonizing uncertainty. It was not till nearly dinnertime that Jane tumbled over The Last of the Mohicansâ âwhich had, of course, been left face downwards on the floorâ âand when Anthea had picked her and the book up she suddenly said, âI know!â and sat down flat on the carpet.
âOh, Pussy, how awful! It was Indians he wished forâ âCyrilâ âat breakfast, donât you remember? He said, âI wish there were Red Indians in England,ââ âand now there are, and theyâre going about scalping people all over the country, as likely as not.â
âPerhaps theyâre only in Northumberland and Durham,â said Jane soothingly. It was almost impossible to believe that it could really hurt people much to be scalped so far away as that.
âDonât you believe it!â said Anthea. âThe Sammyadd said weâd let ourselves in for a nice thing. That means theyâll come here. And suppose they scalped the Lamb!â
âPerhaps the scalping would come right again at sunset,â said Jane; but she did not speak so hopefully as usual.
âNot it!â said Anthea. âThe things that grow out of the wishes donât go. Look at the fifteen shillings! Pussy, Iâm going to break something, and you must let me have every penny of money youâve got. The Indians will come here, donât you see? That spiteful Psammead as good as said so. You see what my plan is? Come on!â
Jane did not see at all. But she followed her sister meekly into their motherâs bedroom.
Anthea lifted down the heavy water-jugâ âit had a pattern of storks and long grasses on it, which Anthea never forgot. She carried it into the dressing-room, and carefully emptied the water out of it into the bath. Then she took the jug back into the bedroom and dropped it on the floor. You know how a jug always breaks if you happen to drop it by accident. If you happen to drop it on purpose, it is quite different. Anthea dropped that jug three times, and it was as unbroken as ever. So at last she had to take her fatherâs boot-tree and break the jug with that in cold blood. It was heartless work.
Next she broke open the missionary-box with the poker. Jane told her that it was wrong, of course, but
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